THE GHOSTS OF GROWTH.

Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep.

Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams

Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems,

Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweep

O'er whitened fields full many a hoary heap

From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams!

With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems,

And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep.

But such ethereal slumber may not bide

The ascending sun's bright scorn — not long, I fear;

And all its visions on the golden tide

Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear.

Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and pride

You fade, and leave the treasure of a tear!